


Let's Start With a Kiss

by Coffee_Flavored_Kisses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Male Homosexuality, OOC Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 14:37:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coffee_Flavored_Kisses/pseuds/Coffee_Flavored_Kisses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a prompt from Tumblr user unlikelyurl: AU case fic where John is a client who asks Sherlock to solve a mystery/crime and there is a lot of sexual tension. later they go from lovers to friends, maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Start With a Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock and John are a bit ooc, though hopefully not so much as to spoil it. I used Mary Morstan's name, but the "Miss Morstan" in this story really doesn't have anything to do with show Mary. Really, it's only the name I used.

“Sherlock!”  
Mrs. Hudson stood appalled in the doorway of the flat at 221b Baker Street and observed her tenant. It took a lot to shock her when it came to Sherlock, but this was a first.  
“I know what you’re thinking, Mrs. Hudson. The answer is yes, this is absolutely necessary.” He had just torn back the last bit of wallpaper from the wall behind his sofa. “The pattern was getting in the way of my diagram.”  
She shook her head and sighed. “Sherlock Holmes, you’ll be the death of me!”  
“More likely that would be your liver or the undue stress on your heart the way you overreact to my methods.”  
She gasped. “How dare--”  
“Oh, don’t worry. You’ve got several years before that’s due. Now… why are you up here?”  
“You have a client,” she told him. “Maybe this one will be good enough for you and you can stop vandalizing my building!”  
She moved aside, and Sherlock stepped down from his sofa. He made his way to a modern grey leather armchair and sat, waiting for what he was sure would be another boring client with another boring case to interrupt his already boring day…  
He watched the doorway as a man entered. The man stood straight, every inch of his short frame accentuated. He made his way to the armchair opposite Sherlock and sat, reaching his arms to either side and resting them comfortably beside himself. Immediately Sherlock went to work, observing that the man was a doctor, recently returned from combat, that he wore fashionable clothing, though it was a few years old, so assumedly it was his civilian garb, and he hadn’t bought anything since he’d returned from war. For that reason he couldn’t have been home long, yet his hair was no longer within the strict army restrictions, so it had to have been at least a mon-- no, two months. The man was not much older than Sherlock, and was a man of a good reputation, engaged to be married…  
And he was, of course, undeniably handsome, though this was a deduction Sherlock quickly disregarded. How could that possibly be important?  
“Mr. Holmes, my name is John Watson.”  
Sherlock leaned back, steepling his fingers under his chin, and listened.  
“I hear you’re the best there is,” John continued. “It took a lot for me to come here at all, but I’m sort of at the end of my rope. You see, I live with my fiancée in a very modest flat outside of town. It’s not much, I admit, but we’re trying to save our funds so that we can afford a decent wedding. I had put some money away before I left. Oh, I should probably have mentioned that I was a s--”  
“--Soldier, yes. I know. Continue.”  
He looked at the detective in astonishment, but continued. “Yes, well… anyway… I have a good amount saved, but our wedding will surely use it all up. The problem is that lately I haven’t been able to bear staying in our flat! Every time I go to relax, whether I’m sitting in my chair or relaxing in bed, or whatever I’m doing, I become dizzy and disoriented. I’ve even experienced nausea and vomiting and severe, almost blinding headaches. I’ve never had this problem before, and I’m worried that…” His words trailed off and his face fell.  
“You think you’re being poisoned by the woman you love.”  
“I hate to say it, Mr. Holmes, but yes.”  
“Sherlock.”  
“What’s that?”  
“Call me Sherlock. Please.”  
“Very well. Sherlock, I care about her very much, but things have been so different since I came home. She complains about our home, and I assure her that once I have a steady job again, we can afford something better. But I don’t know… something’s wrong.”  
“How do you think she’s poisoning you? Does she cook your meals? Make your coffee? You’re a doctor; don’t you think you’d be able to tell if you were being poisoned?”  
“How did you know I was a doctor?”  
Sherlock’s mouth curled a bit in one corner. “Have you tested yourself for poison?”  
“I haven’t, but only because it doesn’t occur after I leave home. It’s only in the home.”  
Sherlock stood very quickly and grabbed his coat. John followed suit. “Where are we going?”  
“I’ll need to see your home, of course.”  
“Oh, right. Okay… I’ll take you.”  
The two travelled hurriedly down the stairs and hailed a cab. After John had told the cabbie the address, they sat back, and after a moment of silence, Sherlock spoke.  
“So. Engaged. How long?”  
“Uh… three years. I asked before I left for Afghanistan. Sort of a spur-of-the-moment thing. Now that I’m back, we’re planning on getting married.”  
“You don’t have a date in mind?”  
“Well, no. We’re working on it.”  
“She’s working on it. You’re not so keen anymore.”  
“Why would you assume a thing like that?”  
“There are many reasons, but perhaps the most glaring is that you believe your fiancée is poisoning you.”  
John blushed a bit. “Yes… I know. I hate myself for believing it, but I think I’m just a little bit… I don’t know. I’m going mad over this whole matter.”  
“The matter of the wedding?”  
“I suppose. It’s not that I don’t want to be married, mind you. I know plenty of blokes who get cold feet at the last minute, but I’m not like that. I haven’t felt right about it from the start. But now I’m not sure how much of that is what I feel and how much of that is this illness or whatever this is.”  
“Perhaps some if it is something else entirely,” Sherlock suggested.  
“Like what, for instance?”  
Sherlock had learned that even though he was paid to observe, some deductions were left unsaid. “Oh, use your imagination, John. I’m sure you’ll figure it out sooner or later if you’re not a complete idiot.”  
“You’re not very good at conversation, are you?”  
“You’re not paying me for conversation.”  
“You’re the one who asked about the engagement. I only answered.” He watched Sherlock for a moment as they sat beside each other. What an awkward man, he thought. Tall and lean, sharp features, almost transparent skin, undeniably attractive in a physical sense, but oh, how he must repel any potential suitor with his manner! He laughed a little to himself, and of course Sherlock noticed.  
“What?”  
“Nothing,” the doctor smiled back. “I imagine you don’t have a girlfriend?”  
“Imagine what you wish.”  
“But you haven’t, have you?”  
Sherlock would not normally have answered such a pointless, unimportant question, but for some inexplicable reason, he felt almost as if he must with this man. “Not really my area.”  
“Oh, I’m sorry. Boyfriend?”  
Sherlock looked at him suddenly. Perhaps the doctor was capable of some observational skills, after all. “No.”  
“I see. You know you could fix that if you’d only liven up a bit. Maybe less of the name-calling.”  
“Why should I change?”  
John smiled. “That’s a good point. If you’re happy with who you are, why should anyone--”  
“Boring,” Sherlock interrupted. “We should be arriving soon.”  
John was a bit shocked at the detective’s rash behavior, but he couldn’t help but smile. Very few people are ever so up front about who they are and how they feel, and for Dr. Watson, that was surprisingly refreshing.  
“Yes,” John said. “Yes, it’s that building there, in fact.”  
They stepped into the building, where Sherlock immediately noted the poor structural conditions. With the foundation cracks, occasional broken windows, and shoddy roofing, he immediately imagined there must be dampness. And where dampness is, there must black mold be, also.  
“You have considered black mold, haven’t you?”  
“That would be a lingering problem,” John answered. “Again, I am only affected when I am here. I mean, present in my flat. Not even anywhere else in my building.”  
Sherlock entered the doctor’s flat, number 33, and slowly stepped along the walls as if the throw rug in the center of the room was made of molten lava. He observed every slat in the wall, every crack in the floor, every crease in the wallpaper. He removed a compact magnifying glass from his pocket and employed its use along the dust of the bookshelves, then looked at the books themselves. It did take some time before he had finished in the living room, but John was grateful he was taking his time.  
“Where else did you say?”  
“Er… the bedroom,” John answered. “This way.”  
The two walked only a short distance, as the tiny home was hardly enough for two people to live in, it seemed. They squeezed through the door and stood beside a bed, which was almost the exact size of the room.  
“I know it’s cramped,” John told him. “I’m sorry.”  
“Get in the bed,” Sherlock said.  
“I’m sorry?”  
“Get in the bed. I need to observe.”  
John nodded. After all the good he’d heard of Sherlock’s reputation, he had decided against questioning him further. He crawled across the bed and lay down on his side. After a moment, he began to stir.  
“Yep, it’s started already,” he said in a groggy tone. “I’m feeling dizzy and nauseous.”  
“I’m going to lie beside you,” Sherlock told him. “Don’t move.”  
John watched Sherlock crawl into the bed beside him, lie down flat on his back, and wait. He waited two minutes, then five, then almost ten in complete silence before John spoke up.  
“I can’t stay any longer,” John said. “I’m going to vomit.” He stood, and Sherlock did as well, even stepping aside so that John could exit the room. As he passed the threshold, his dizziness and disorientation caused him to trip, but Sherlock, with his lightning-fast reflexes and ever-observant eye, caught the doctor before he could fall.  
John’s eyes were inches from Sherlock’s, and suddenly his illness seemed to fade. He couldn’t think about his upset stomach or his clouded mind or his fiancée who may or may not have been trying to slowly, painfully murder him. All he could think about were those things he saw now – the most magnificently blue eyes he’d ever gazed into or had looking right back at him as these did now.  
“Alright?” Sherlock asked.  
“Yes,” John answered, straightening up and clearing his throat as if that could clear his mind as well. “Sorry about that.”  
Sherlock stepped back into the bedroom after it was empty and looked all over using the method he had used in the living room. John watched in amazement at his method, whatever it was, and grew admired with every step Sherlock took, every clue he uncovered, and every snap of the opening of his magnifying glass.  
“Dr. Watson, I have good news, and I have bad news.”  
“The bad news?”  
“I think it best to start with the good news…”  
Before he could continue, the door opened, and in stepped a lovely young woman whom Sherlock deduced immediately to be the future Mrs. Watson.  
Not for long, though.  
“Your fiancée is not trying to kill you,” Sherlock said.  
“Of course I’m not!” The woman interjected. “John, did you think I was?”  
“Darling, I knew you couldn’t be! I only hired Sherlock because I wanted to see if he could find the reason behind my illness. I knew it wasn’t you!”  
“Oh, I didn’t say _that_ , John.”  
“Excuse me?” the engaged couple said in unison.  
“I noticed you have an entire bookshelf dedicated to the study of the paranormal,” Sherlock stated. “You’re a doctor, John – a man of science. You would never devote this much time to such a ridiculous hobby. You were a soldier who’s been gone for the past two years, and many of these books were purchased during the time you were away. These are your books, Miss…?”  
“Morstan,” She answered.  
“Miss Morstan. You have books about haunted locations and landmarks, but more recently, you have purchased books detailing how to conduct a proper ghost hunt. I imagine these books detail the equipment necessary in summoning a spirit and allowing that spirit to communicate, so I assume they require any potential ‘ghost hunter’ to own a REM Pod or two or in your case _seventeen_.”  
John looked at his fiancée, and she was glaring at Sherlock.  
“John, just in case you weren’t aware, allow me to inform you exactly what it is that a REM Pod does. It radiates its own independent electromagnetic field, and you, my dear friend, have a heightened electromagnetic sensitivity. I believe Miss Morstan must have noticed this at some point quite by accident, and has since taken advantage of the fact. It is fairly common to have this sensitivity; in fact, many who believe their basements are haunted are simply experiencing electromagnetic sensitivity from things like an electric furnace or washing machine. It can cause all sorts of symptoms: nausea, vomiting, headaches, sleeplessness, even hallucinations. Miss Morstan placed these REM pods throughout your home, doctor, in all your usual places. She didn’t do it to poison you, of course, since such a thing isn’t possible as long as you are not directly around these devices, but she was hoping it would urge you to spend some of that wedding money on a nicer place.”  
John looked at his fiancée. “Is this true?”  
“I just…” she looked at Sherlock once more in disgust. “Can you blame me?”  
John immediately began fighting with her, and she gave it back just as strongly. Sherlock only waited a moment before excusing himself from the home and grabbing a taxi back to Baker Street.

 

It was almost nine in the evening when Sherlock heard the doorbell, and moments later noticed a familiar face in his living room.  
“John,” he stated, looking upon his former client.  
“Sherlock,” he answered. “May I?”  
Sherlock directed him inside, gestured to the plaid armchair John had favored before, and sat across from him. “Tea?”  
“No, thanks,” he answered. “But I do believe I owe you a fee.”  
Sherlock shook his head. “Think nothing of it.”  
“But you did a service for me. It’s only right…”  
“I must say I’m a bit sympathetic to your case. I hope you came to some resolve with Miss Morstan?”  
“Yes,” he answered firmly. “We’ve broken up.”  
“I suppose that’s for the best.”  
John laughed a bit. “Yes, I should say so. And listen… thank you for everything. I guess I always knew something was off with us. She sort of talked me into the whole marriage thing early on, and I was so sure I wouldn’t return that I got engaged!” he shook his head smiling as he thought about it. “It wasn’t the wisest decision I’ve ever made.”  
“I could think of seven reasons why you shouldn’t have been engaged,” Sherlock said. “That was only one.”  
“Oh? And what other reasons?”  
“Oh, some are almost insignificant. By themselves, I would say they are hardly enough reason for you to sever the relationship. Though there was one glaringly obvious reason I could not deny.”  
“And that is?”  
Sherlock smiled. “The way you looked at me, doctor,” he started, “Told me more in five seconds than I daresay you have admitted to yourself in all your 42 years.”  
John’s face fell serious, his body froze, and his heart skipped a beat. “What?”  
“I think we both know,” Sherlock said.  
“Sherlock, I’m not… I mean, I’ve never…”  
“I know,” he answered. “You’ve never, but you’ve thought about it.”  
John shifted in his chair a bit. “I’m sorry if I was less than appropriate.”  
“On the contrary. You were very appropriate. You didn’t rip off my clothes and take me in that bed roughly even though that was all you could think about from the moment I lay in it beside you. Such self-restraint is to be applauded. And even now, your pupils have dilated, your pulse has quickened, and you’ve sat up, crossed your legs, and moved your hands over your lap to hide your erection.”  
“Sherlock, you can’t say things like that to me. We’ve only just met this morning, and I’ve just broken up with my fiancée of three years.”  
“And those things make you incapable of expressing your physical desires?”  
“It makes it less orthodox.”  
“Does that matter to you?”  
“Not really…”  
“Good.”  
“So now what?”  
Sherlock stood and approached the doctor. As he stood in front of him, he reached down gently and grazed his long, thin fingers along John’s tie, tugged at it, and urged him from his seat.  
“Let’s start with a kiss,” Sherlock suggested.  
John leaned forward, curling his fingers through the detective’s hair, pulling him close. Sherlock’s arms wrapped slowly but tightly around John’s waist, and his hands rolled along his back carelessly until he found himself caressing the back of John’s neck. Their lips fused, their bodies painfully close, and their hands exploring each other freely as if they’d known each other years rather than hours, they finally pulled away just long enough for John to speak.  
“You wouldn’t happen to mind if I stayed here tonight, would you?”


End file.
